this love will be my downfall
by topside
Summary: "He often teases her, goads her; inciting a reaction from her gives him an indescribable joy. He also dreams of her, of suffocating her with kisses and teaching her how a real man loves his woman." F!Dragonborn/Vilkas, F!Dragonborn/Brynjolf in future chapters. -I do not own Skyrim. Bethesda Studios does.-
1. Bring It!

This is "this love will be my downfall," also known as "how many synonyms for 'fight' can I come up with!" Seriously though, this was supposed to be an angsty oneshot about Mayenor, my Dragonborn, having to choose between Vilkas and Brynjolf. And wouldn't you know it, it turned into _another chapter series. _Ask me if I'm surprised. (I'm not.)

Anyway, as usual, I hope you enjoy! Please please please don't hesitate to leave comments or criticism!

God bless!

topside

* * *

Something is wrong.

He can tell from the moment she barrels into Jorrvaskr, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her with deafening force, that she is furious. Rage positively radiates from her, and, as she stomps down the stairs and tosses herself into a seat at the long table, some of the whelps nearest her scatter lest they fall victim to her anger. He sits in his usual spot at the end of the table, a tankard of ale resting in front of him, and he eyes her with a secretive smirk. She catches his gaze and her pretty lips twist into a scowl.

"The fuck are you looking at?" She snarls, and he leans back in his chair, now grinning.

"Now, now, Shield-Sister," he chides, his patronizing tone causing her to ball her hands into fists. "Such language! What happened to the eager young Nord who first stepped through those doors?"

"I grew up," she snaps, grabbing a hunk of bread and ripping it apart with her teeth. He admires her strong neck and animalistic fervor.

"Well that's a shame," he sighs. "Here I was hoping you'd grow up enough we could have a decent fight, but you've already gotten _old._"

"I'm not old!" She protests through a mouthful of bread, which she hurriedly washes down with mead from a nearby pitcher. The strong, bitter taste makes her eyes water as she struggles to swallow the acrid liquid. "I'm not old," she repeats once her mouth is empty. "And I can take you any day!"

Her challenge lacks eloquence, and he has to bite back a sigh. He has fought at her side and he knows she is strong; her strength sometimes allows him to forget that she is barely out of childhood, with fewer than twenty winters under her belt. He often teases her, goads her; inciting a reaction from her gives him an indescribable joy. He also dreams of her, of suffocating her with kisses and teaching her how a real man loves his woman. But he refuses to view her as more than a Shield-Sister and rival for now; she is too young for him. He knows the only way he can interact with her without his affection being revealed is through taunting and sparring.

"If you _really_ think that," he says, hauling himself to his feet and taking a gulp of his mead, "then let's see you prove it." She hesitates, clutching her hunk of bread too tightly, and he throws back his head and laughs. "Are you _scared_, whelp?" He teases, and she tosses the bread back onto the table, standing with fists clenched.

"I'm not a whelp," she says lowly, "and I'm definitely not afraid to put you in your place." She reaches over her shoulder and draws the greatsword Eorlund forged for her in the Skyforge; he barely has time to palm his own dagger, the only weapon he carries on him while in Jorrvaskr, before she lunges toward him.

"_Vilkas! Mayenor!_" She stops mid-swing when Aela's voice rings out across the mead hall's main room. Vilkas turns to face her, calm expression belying the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he stoops to retrieve his own sword from its place beside his chair. "Take it _outside_." Aela orders, pointing to the doors that lead out to the courtyard. Obediently, Mayenor re-sheathes her weapon and heads for the doors, Vilkas following. He gives Aela a curious look as she and Farkas fall into step behind him.

"I have to make sure you don't kill one another," Aela explains, as though her motives should be obvious to him.

"And you?" Vilkas questions his brother, who grins sheepishly and shrugs.

"I just wanna watch a good fight," he admits, and Vilkas feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Farkas lives a simple life and finds joy in small things, and sometimes Vilkas envies him.

"Are you _coming_?" Mayenor's petulant voice reaches his ears through the open doors, and he lingers at the threshold, letting himself wish, just for a moment, that he could approach the girl with his true intentions instead of baiting her into fighting so he can satisfy his desire for physical contact, however briefly.

"No weapons," Aela cautions as she and Farkas find seats under the awning, where they'll be protected from the blistering heat of the midday Skyrim sun.

"What?" Mayenor asks, looking taken aback.

"No weapons," Aela repeats, and she reaches a hand out to the girl, clearly expecting her to surrender her sword and sheath. While Mayenor gapes at this unexpected turn of events, Vilkas places his own weapons in his brother's care, then turns to face his opponent. He is surprised to see that she is unloading her weapons without any further argument; he's even more surprised to note how many weapons she has to discard. Two daggers emerge from hidden sheathes on each hip and one more from each boot. She lifts her bow, a black construct covered in engraved runes that glow faintly with a pearly sheen, over her head and sets it on the table, followed by a quiver of orcish arrows. Finally, she unstraps her greatsword's sheath and surrenders it, sword securely tucked inside, to Aela. Even the older woman looks impressed as she takes stock of Mayenor's personal arsenal.

"A real warrior stands alone and doesn't rely on weapons," Vilkas quips, but he instantly regrets it as Mayenor's green eyes turn fiery. He always takes his provoking a step too far, and he's afraid she's beginning to hate him. He doesn't want her to hate him; one day, he hopes she'll learn to love him.

"I'll show _you_," she mutters, spinning on her heel and marching into the training courtyard. "Come on. Let's see who the _real_ warrior is." Vilkas grins and descends the steps to join her. She raises her fists, settling into a fighting stance, and he does the same, noting that she looks stiff and uncomfortable. He attributes that to her sudden lack of weapons; he understands as well as anyone else that having a sword by your side gives you a sense of safety that can't be achieved otherwise.

He gets lost in his thoughts – lost in _her_ – and almost misses her first attack. He steps aside just in time, and she stumbles a bit before whirling around to face him again.

"You're getting slow, old man," she purrs, and the venomous glee in her voice sends a shiver of desire down his spine. She _enjoys_ fighting, and he finds that dangerously attractive.

She lunges again, and he dances aside, shifting forward to snatch her wrist as she passes by him. He twists her arm behind her back, pulling her tight up against him. Her fingers scratch at his chest as she squirms to get away, but he only holds her tighter.

"Want to give up now," he hisses in her ear, and she stiffens as his hot breath wafts across her neck, "or continue this charade?" She merely grunts in response, and after a second more, he feels a sharp pain in his knee. He stumbles back, realizing she kicked him, and with enough force to break the bone in a smaller man.

"I told you I'm going to put you in your place, and I intend to do just that," she tells him firmly, and it takes all his willpower not to sweep her into his arms and pepper her with kisses. He loves how stubborn she is.

She darts forward and manages to land a punch on the side of his jaw, and the pain brings him out of his moment of admiration. His beastly instinct is beginning to kick in, but he battles it, knowing that once he starts fighting in earnest, the skirmish will be over and she will ignore him and sulk for the rest of the night. So he begins to prowl around in a circle, and she moves in the opposite direction, eyes darting across his body as she tried to find an opening. While she searched him, he leaps forward and sweeps his legs behind her knees; she crumples to the ground with a yelp of surprise. He could easily pin her to the ground now, but he refutes his training and returns to a fighting stance, waiting while she picks herself off the ground and readies herself for another attack.

"He's like a cat with a mouse," Aela observes with amusement, her voice carrying to the fighters. "_Playing _with his prey." Farkas chuckles.

"He always does this with her," he remarks, watching his brother. "Though he never takes it easy on _me_…"

"I'm twice her size," Vilkas comments, eyes still glued to Mayenor's. "I don't want to crush the little thing." Mayenor scowls, obviously objecting to his referring to her as a 'thing'. She sprints toward him, catching him off-guard, and he instinctively thrusts a fist out to meet her stomach; he hears a sharp _crack _and winces sympathetically as she groans, fingers curling around his wrist as she tries to remain upright. He slips his free arm around her shoulders to support her; she shrugs him off and stumbles away, bent nearly double and clutching her side, still managing to pierce him with a poisonous glare.

Aela steps up beside Mayenor and puts gentle hands on her shoulders. The girl collapses gratefully into the older woman's embrace; over her head, Aela frowns at Vilkas, who, for a moment, is at a loss for what to do.

"I didn't mean to-" He stammers, but Aela is leading Mayenor away, back into Jorrvaskr. Farkas thumps down the stairs to join Vilkas.

"She'll be fine," he assures his brother; Vilkas continues to stare after the women, looking stricken.

"I wasn't trying to _hurt_ her," he repeats, and Farkas frowns.

"Of course not. And you've done worse than that training the whelps. Remember when you almost cut Ethelia's arm off? Don't worry about her." Vilkas purses his lips and realizes that Farkas is blind to his feelings for the girl, something Vilkas had begun to fear his brother suspected.

"She's just a kid," he grunts in response, shouldering past his sibling. "Don't want to kill her." He stops to retrieve his weapons, then stomps into the main hall, good mood fouled with worry. He casts a glance toward the stairs down which he knew Aela had led Mayenor, then falls into his usual seat and takes up his tankard, filling it with mead. If he can't find comfort in being by Mayenor's side, he'll find it in a few pitchers of mead.


	2. Hired Muscle

She awakens many hours later. Or… maybe _not_ many hours later. She can see the sun streaming in through a window above her bed, and it seems as bright as it was when she fell asleep. She tries to sit up, to get a better look, but groans as her injured ribs protest the pressure. As she falls back to the pillows, there is a rustle from across the room; she turns her head to look and sees Ria hovering over her.

"Are you ok?" The woman – if she could be called that, being so close in age to Mayenor herself – asks worriedly. "I mean, obviously you're not. Your ribs are broken and everything. And Vilkas hasn't even apologized!" She looks annoyed by this fact, and Mayenor chuckles.

"I don't expect him to, Ria," she assures her Shield-Sister, slowly raising herself into a sitting position and wincing when her ribs are jostled. Ria flits around her, chattering vaguely, but Mayenor ignores her.

She realizes she's been stripped of her armor, presumably by Aela, and left to rest in her underwear and tank top. Sighing, she stands and struggles to at least pull on some pants. She manages just fine by herself until it comes time to button the linen slacks, when she finds that trying the button causes her forearms to put pressure on her ribs. Ria swoops in to help her, and she bites her lip, fighting back the indignation that consumes her. As soon as Ria is out of the way, she limps her way out the door, carrying herself as proudly as she can manage.

"Where are you going?" Ria continues to flutter around her. "You don't have shoes on. You shouldn't go upstairs, it'll hurt your ribs. Oh, and Aela wants to see you when you wake up. And, obviously, you're awake now, so you should go find her." Mayenor closes her eyes and draws a slow breath, begging the gods for patience. Ria means well, but her over-eager and overly-chatty nature quickly grates on her nerves. She's the reason Mayenor almost never spends the night in Jorrvaskr, sometimes paying for a room just to avoid her.

"Luckily, that's exactly where I'm going. And I have a private matter to discuss with her, so if you'd let us have a moment…?" She's being as gentle as she can manage, but Ria still looks crestfallen.

"Oh. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all? I want you to get better. See, I was thinking maybe I could go with you on your next adventure-"

"Breakfast," Mayenor cuts in sharply before Ria can get carried away. "Could you get me some breakfast? Maybe a sweet roll?"

"Of course!" Ria coos, happy to be useful. As she turns and heads for the stairs with a spring in her step, Mayenor slips down the hall and to Aela's study. She knocks and waits for an answer before entering.

"You're up. Good. I was beginning to think the Temple of Kynareth had lost its healing powers." Aela is bent over her work and barely spares a glance at Mayenor when she enters. "Drink that," she demands, jerking her chin toward a reddish bottle. "It'll taste like shit, but it'll take away the pain and speed up your healing." Obediently, Mayenor takes the bottle and uncorks it, sniffing warily at the contents. "Don't you dare turn your nose up at it," Aela warns. "I paid good coin for that. Besides, you're gonna need your strength." Something in the woman's voice gives Mayenor an inexplicable feeling of dread. Nonetheless, she takes a deep breath and tips the contents of the red bottle down her throat.

She coughs and splutters, struggling to swallow and fighting not to vomit even once she has.

"Don't you _dare_ throw that up!" Aela orders. "I paid two hundred septims for that!"

"I'll pay you back," Mayenor mumbles, her words muffled by the hand that covers her mouth, "if you let me throw it up."

"_No_," she replies sternly, and Mayenor closes her eyes, forcing her gag reflex to calm down. After a moment, she straightens and looks to Aela, nodding.

"I think I'm good now."

"Good. And don't worry about paying me back. It came from the Companion's funds. Now," she begins shuffling the papers on her desk around. "I have an important matter to discuss with you."

"Yeah, you mentioned I'm going to need that potion. Why?" Mayenor asks, already feeling the warm comfort of healing magic blossoming over her injured ribs.

"I need you to accompany another Companion on a job," Aela answers carefully, which only heightens Mayenor's suspicion.

"Which Companion? _Please _not Torvar. Last time I went on a job with him, he tried to get into my sleeping roll with me and I ended up stabbing him in the arm." Aela bites back a grin.

"No, it's not Torvar," she assures her Shield-Sister. "Worse."

"Ria?" Mayenor guesses. "She's a bad shot and she's annoying."

"Worse."

"Um… You? You're a bitch to travel with." Aela shoots a playfully threatening glare at Mayenor, but shakes her head in the negative. "Well then who? I don't know who else would be awful to work with."

"Vilkas," Aela sighs, and Mayenor stares in disbelief.

"_Vilkas? _The guy who just broke my ribs? No. I refuse the job."

"You can't refuse a job and you know it."

"Why don't you send Farkas with him? They fight well together."

"They're too competitive. They start trying to out-fight one another and they get reckless. The Jarl of Falkreath didn't give many details when I took the contract. All he said was that he's having a 'serious problem' with bandits attacking farms and houses throughout the Hold. The attacks have been pretty scattered, so it looks like we're going up against an entire camp, not just an outpost. I can't risk Farkas and Vilkas making a mistake and getting themselves killed."

"Well then send Torvar with him. Let them have some nice bonding time." Mayenor is practically begging, but she can't even care. She'll do anything to avoid a job with Vilkas.

"I know you're just trying to get out of this, but you're not going to." Aela's voice is firm, but her smile is sympathetic. "As much as you hate it, the two of you make an excellent team. Plus, you're more familiar with Falkreath than anyone else. _My Thane._" She smirks when she voices the title, and Mayenor wrinkles her nose.

"Don't call me that. I didn't want to be Thane," she says, a distinct whine to her voice.

"You shouldn't keep it hidden from everyone," Aela comments. "We're your family. You should share honors like that, not keep them to yourself."

Mayenor thinks of everything else she's keeping from the Companions: that she is the Dragonborn, that she belongs to the Thieves' Guild in Riften, that she is an assassin with the Dark Brotherhood. There's much about her life she's kept hidden from the various factions with which she's associated. No one in Skyrim, save Mayenor herself, truly knows her, though at least one _thinks _he does.

"I just don't want anyone treating me differently," she finally says, shrugging.

"Not even Vilkas? He might give you some respect if he knew your position."

"I don't need his respect," she scowls. "If he wants to treat me like a whelp, that's fine. It'll just hurt his pride even more when I kick his ass." Aela shakes her head.

"Don't kill each other, please. I need you both in good condition. With all these dragons showing up, I get the feeling we're going to be getting in quite a few contracts. Now, go get details from Vilkas. He should be in his room packing." Aela waves a vague goodbye, obviously dismissing Mayenor.

With a huff, Mayenor leaves the office, shutting the door behind her. For a moment, she stands and glowers at the wall, quietly fuming. She doesn't spend a lot of time at Jorrvaskr: between the Dark Brotherhood sending her out to fulfill contracts, trying to keep the dragon threat under control, and getting the Thieves' Guild back on its feet, she has her hands full most of the time.

"Figures I'd get a job as soon as I get back," she grumbles, kicking angrily at the stone floor.

"Say what?" Mayenor jumps in surprise when Ria swoops up beside her, carrying a tray laden with sweet rolls, fruits, and a pitcher of juice.

"Nothing," Mayenor replies, waving a hand dismissively. "Thank you for this. It looks wonderful." Ria beams, and together they find a nearby empty table and settle down to share a meal.

"So what did Aela say?" Ria asked as Maynor devours her food. She must have been knocked out for quite a while; she's starving.

"She's sending me on a job. With _Vilkas_." Ria looks as appalled as Mayenor feels.

"After you've spent the last three days doped up with healing magic? Your ribs are broken; how does she expect you to accomplish anything?"

"Healing potion," Mayenor answers, patting her side to prove that she is, indeed, better.

"Still, why him?"

"I don't know," she answers with a shrug, washing down the last bite of her sweet roll with a gulp of juice.

"Well… When are you leaving?" Ria asks earnestly, clearly hoping Mayenor won't disappear anytime soon. After a job, she tends to vanish to who knows where for a few months.

"I don't know. I have to go find Vilkas and ask." Mayenor scowls, clearly not looking forward to the conversation. "Thanks again for the food," she asks, standing from her place at the table. "I better go find Vilkas…"

"No problem!" Ria chirps. "And make him apologize!" She calls after Mayenor as the younger girl heads down the hall. Mayenor can't hide a grin.

She's never been to Vilkas's room, but she knows it's across from Farkas's, which she's visited a few times on various errands. She pads down the hallway on which the brothers live, the stone floor cool against her bare feet, and when she reaches the end of the hall, she turns to face Vilkas's open door. She can see him in there, clad in plain, cotton slacks and a loose-fitting shirt; his armor is carefully laid out on the small bed, and Mayenor allows herself a moment to take advantage of this rare sneak peek into Vilkas's private space. She's always imagined that his space would be neat and uncluttered, so she's surprised to see various weapons leaning against the walls and alchemy ingredients scattered in the most nonsensical places. There is a dresser across from the bed, and out of this, he's taking fresh clothes and folding them tightly into his rucksack.

Curiosity sated, she clears her throat and knocks once. He throws a glance over his shoulder and grunts for her to come in. She doesn't, instead leaning against the doorframe and waiting for him to acknowledge her. After all the indignities she's suffered at his hands, from being relentlessly hazed as a whelp to his continuing effort to make her life hell, she's not about to beg for his attention. So she waits, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, for him to deign to speak with her.

After a moment, he pauses in his packing and half-turns, looking at her expectantly. She returns his look in kind, and he sighs.

"Can we _not _make this any more unpleasant than it already is?" He asks, tone bordering on exasperated. She bristles.

"I don't know. Ask my _broken ribs_," she retorts, and she knows it's a childish thing to say, but he always brings out the worst in her.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he rumbles, turning back to his rucksack. "And I apologize." Mayenor stares at his broad back, stunned into silence. He has never once said anything verging on kind to her, much less apologized for hurting her, and yet this came unprovoked.

"Tell me about this job," she finally says, deciding to ignore his unprecedented words.

"Bandits in Falkreath. Gotta find the camp and wipe it out. Big reward. We leave at dawn." He turns around fully for the first time and looks at her without a hint of his usual sarcasm and arrogance. "What else do you need to know?"

"Horses or cart?" She asks, hoping they're riding to Falkreath on their own. The cart drivers always want to chat and gossip, and she's rarely in the mood to oblige them.

"Horses," he answers. "We'll have to go slow in this heat so they don't overheat. I plan to make it to Falkreath Hold by nightfall and rent rooms. Tomorrow is all travel, so hopefully no fighting except for the occasional bear or wolf."

"Fine." She turns to leave, but he calls out to her to wait.

"How are you feeling?" He asks, and she is visibly taken aback by the apparent sincerity in his words.

"Fine, now. Aela bought a strong healing potion so I'd be healed for this job." He nods, and Mayenor almost thinks she can see relief in his eyes.

"Good. I'm glad."

"Yeah…" She agrees dumbly, not sure how to interpret his sudden change of heart.

"Well. See you in the morning, then. Be sure to pack tonight. Don't worry too much about food; we'll get the supplies we need when we get there. No sense to load ourselves down for the ride." He turns his back to her, an obvious dismissal, and she wanders back down the hall to where Ria still sits at the table, awaiting news.

"Well?" She prompts. "Did he apologize?"

"Yes, actually." Mayenor's voice is dazed as she continues to puzzle through Vilkas's actions.

"Oh." Ria looks surprised. "Well… Good. He should have. So when are you leaving?"

"Dawn." Mayenor pulls herself from her thoughts to look at Ria, who seems to droop.

"So soon? I was hoping you'd stay around a while longer…" Mayenor almost smiles, feeling an odd, almost maternal fondness for the older girl. It was obvious from the day Mayenor stumbled into Jorrvaskr that Ria is considered a lesser Companion, and Mayenor can understand why: her combat technique is poor, she's clumsy, and she lacks stealth and restraint. Even so, her determination and eagerness to please makes her useful for small contracts.

"It shouldn't be a long job," Mayenor assures her Shield-Sister. "Just a bandit camp in Falkreath. I'll be back in a few days." She doesn't add that, once back in Whiterun, she'll only stick around long enough to collect her payment for the job before leaving again, though she's not sure where she'll go this time. She's spent the last several seasons in Riften – or, rather, _under _Riften – and the knowledge that she's no longer needed there stings. She had thought after taking care of the Mercer problem that she could finally settle down and spend a little time relaxing with her fellow Guild members, but Brynjolf had made it clear that she had served her purpose as far as he was concerned.

Mayenor pulls herself from her thoughts and forces herself to listen to Ria, who is still rambling cheerfully.

"I was thinking that maybe you and I could go hunting together sometime, when you're not busy," the brunette was saying, eyes earnest. "Maybe you can help me with my archery? I'm getting better, though; I killed a bear the other day!"

"Really? What'd you do with the pelt?" Mayenor asks, feigning interest.

"Took it to the blacksmith." Ria proudly tugs at the leather bracers around her wrists. "Had these made. And made a necklace out of one of the claws." She produces a long, curved claw from under her tunic, holding it out for Mayenor to see.

"That's a pretty sharp claw," she says, whistling appreciatively. Ria looks irrationally pleased. "Anyway, I better start packing. Gotta do some shopping in town before I'm ready to set off again. See you for dinner?" She starts toward her bed, intent on gathering her clothes and weapons so she can tend to the necessary repairs. Behind her, Ria is still grinning as she waves a too-energetic farewell.


	3. The Lover's Requital

He can't count the number of times he's heard tourists passing through Whiterun complaining about Skyrim being 'too cold.' The khajiit, especially, who he knows are used to deserts and rainforests, claim that Skyrim summers are downright mild. But to Vilkas, born and raised in Whiterun, the midday sun is positively _boiling_.

They've spent the majority of their trip travelling along the White River, and the longer they ride by the water's edge, the more often he glances at it wistfully, longing to strip his heavy armor and go for a swim. He's already shed as much armor as he dares, but he can't bring himself to risk losing his heavy iron breastplate and leg armor. Beside him, on a dappled grey mare that Vilkas recognizes as one of Riften's trademark steeds, Mayenor lounges comfortably in brown leather armor and a matching hood that shades her eyes from the harsh sun.

As the heat begins to grow unbearable, a turn in the road reveals the buildings of Riverwood up ahead, and Vilkas lets out a long breath of relief. Not only is he eager to get inside and cool off, but his growling stomach reminds him that dawn and his breakfast are several hours behind him.

"We'll stop in Riverwood," he grunts to Mayenor, breaking the silence that had reigned since they'd left the city. "Get some lunch. Rest the horses." Mayenor doesn't answer, just nodding her head to indicate her understanding. Vilkas watches her from the corner of his eye and frowns. She looks completely at-ease, resting in the saddle as though she's accustomed to spending countless hours on horseback, and he wonders, not for the first time, what exactly she does during her long absences from Jorrvaskr. She's a little different every time she returns to the mead hall; sometimes a new scar decorates her pale skin, and sometimes a new confidence shines in her green eyes. She's doing _something _when she's not with the Companions, and, if her secrecy is any indication, she's doing something big.

They tether their horses with the guards' outside of town, then head for the Sleeping Giant Inn, both walking a bit stiffly as their legs adjust to supporting their weight once more. The town guards nod to Vilkas, recognizing him as a Companion, but the people on the streets ignore him, instead calling greetings to Mayenor, who grins and waves to them. He's surprised to see her so cheerful and even more surprised to see them so familiar with a girl he hardly knows, despite calling her Shield-Sister.

"May?" Vilkas turns as he hears a woman's voice from across the stream that winds through the town. As he watches, Mayenor trots toward the lumbermill as another woman runs across the bridge that connects it to the rest of town. The women embrace on the porch of the blacksmith's shop, and Vilkas, curious, steps over to watch their reunion.

"How _are _you?" The strange woman asks, holding Mayenor at arm's length and looking her over, beaming. "It's been so long! We were afraid something had happened to you…"

"I'm fine, Gerdur," Mayenor insists, her own smile rivaling her friend's. "What about you? Bandits still giving you troubles?"

"After you stormed in here and showed them what's what?" Gerdur laughs. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of them!" Mayenor's friendly smile flicks into a cruel, toothy grin.

"Good. I thought I made myself pretty clear. Now, where's that idiot brother of yours?"

"'Idiot'? I'm hurt, May." Vilkas bristles when a blond man brushes past him and pauses before the women. "I think I'm a fool, at worst." Mayenor laughs and breaks away from Gerdur to throw her arms around the newcomer's neck. He hugs her around the waist and lifts her off the ground, spinning her around and making her shriek with surprise.

Vilkas feels his already-sour mood fouling as he watches the exchange. He's always thought of Mayenor as a mysterious figure, someone that _no one _knows very much about, and that makes him feel better about the fact that he knows almost nothing about her except that he loves her. But apparently she's only a mystery to _him_; clearly, these people know her better than he'd thought anyone could.

"Who's your friend?" Gerdur's giggling question brings Vilkas from his thoughts, and he sees that they're all looking at him now.

"Vilkas," he says by way of introduction, offering a hand to the man, who shakes it firmly.

"Ralof," he supplies, eyeing Vilkas critically. "You look familiar. Have you been through here before?" Vilkas nods.

"A few times, on patrols for the Jarl before he stationed guards here."

"The Jarl?" Ralof looks surprised. "You've friends in high places, then."

"Vilkas is a Companion," Mayenor cuts in. "We work together on occasion. Now, Gerdur, I would absolutely _kill _for some of your frost mirriam tea right about now…" She begins to steer the other woman toward the road, leaving the men to fall into step behind them.

"A Companion, hm?" Ralof muses conversationally as they follow the women past the Riverwood Trader and along a path leading to what Vilkas assumes is Gerdur and Ralof's home. "You're lucky to be traveling with Mayenor."

"You know her well, then?" Vilkas tries to sound casual.

"Aye. She saved my life. I'd be dead and burned in Helgen right now if not for her." Vilkas looks sharply at the Nord.

"You were in Helgen when the dragon attacked? _She _was in Helgen when the dragon attacked?"

"She didn't tell you?" Ralof seems surprised, but after a moment of thought, he shrugs. "I don't really blame her. I don't like to talk about it, myself. A thing of nightmares, that was…" He shudders. "The Imperials picked her up near the border to Cyrodiil when they ambushed us. Thought she was a Stormcloak, like us." The blond's face darkens as he remembers the day. "She was kneeling in front of the executioner's block when the dragon showed up. If it had been even a minute later…" He shakes his head and falls silent.

"Are you telling stories back here?" Mayenor stands at the door to the house, and her tone is pleasant, though a glint in her eyes betrays that she's suspicious of the men's conversation. Ralof brushes her words away with a wave of his hand and steps through the open door, but Vilkas pauses beside her.

"You never told me you were at Helgen," he says lowly, and she fixes him with a piercing stare.

"I wasn't aware we were friendly enough to talk about the good old days," she retorts, then turns on her heel and stomps into the house. He follows.

The house is smaller than it had seemed from the outside; with the livestock roaming out front, Vilkas had failed to notice that the house was, in fact, little more than a one room shack. Nonetheless, the fire in the hearth and the smell of home cooking makes the small space cozy and inviting, and Vilkas feels oddly comfortable as he settles into a seat at the table. Cheeses and cooked meats are piled in the middle of the table, and Vilkas eyes them hungrily, once again remembering how long it's been since he last ate. He hopes Mayenor's reunion with Ralof and Gerdur will be brief so they can hurry to the Inn and get some lunch.

As though sensing Vilkas's hungry thoughts, Gerdur pushes a wooden plate toward him, gesturing for him to get his share of the food.

"Eat," she says, pouring what he assumes is the frost mirriam tea Mayenor mentioned into four tankards.

"I couldn't impose," he declines politely, and she offers him an appreciative smile.

"Please, I insist. Any friend of May's is a friend of ours." Beside his sister, Ralof gives a solemn nod of agreement, and Vilkas only hesitates for a moment before deciding not to mention that he and Mayenor are far from friends. As he spears a salmon steak with his pocket knife, Mayenor helps herself to the siblings' food, as well.

They eat quickly, and, though Vilkas had been looking forward to a tankard of cold mead, he finds himself surprisingly rejuvenated by Gerdur's tea – a secret recipe, she'd told him with a wink when he'd mentioned he liked it.

"Oh, you must be _roasting _in that armor," Gerdur tsks after she and Mayenor have cleaned up from the meal, eyeing Vilkas with a hand on her hip. "Ralof, get him some of your clothes so he can get out of it for a little while, at least."

"We won't be here much longer-" Vilkas begins to protest, but Gerdur cuts him off with a dismissive wave.

"Nonsense. We haven't seen Mayenor since First Seed. You have to stay for the night."

"Actually, we need to get to Falkreath by nightfall," Mayenor says quickly, before Vilkas and Gerdur can get into an argument. "But we're making good time. A few hours of rest can only do us good." She looks at Vilkas from the corner of her eye, a catlike grin tugging at her lips. "I'm sure Vilkas will agree."

He _doesn't _agree, and she knows that, but she can also tell that he isn't eager to face the heat of the day again. After a moment's indecision, he nods grudgingly, and her triumphant smirk sends a shock of affection through his chest. Jealousy has been clawing at his mind since the moment Ralof and Mayenor embraced, and now, seeing her lounging so comfortably next to the other man, he finds himself struggling not to hate his perceived competition.

"C'mon," Ralof grunts, standing and stretching with a groan. "Let's get you something lighter to wear. No need for you to stink up the house with your sweat." He claps Vilkas on the shoulder, his manner friendly, as he says this, heading to the far corner of the room, where he bends over a chest. Vilkas reluctantly follows him, accepting the cloth tunic and leggings Ralof offers to him. "You can change over there," he says, jerking his head to a secluded part of the house, where a large bed is tucked away from the main living area.

"Thanks," Vilkas mumbles, moving over to the bed as Ralof returns to the table. He changes slowly, listening hard to the others' low conversation.

"So? Tell us about Big and Brooding over there," Gerdur says, voice barely above a whisper.

"There's nothing to say. We work together, that's all," Mayenor replies, and somehow her candor about their lack of a relationship stings Vilkas's pride.

"He's handsome, though, isn't he?" Gerdur continues.

"And a Companion. It's nice to see you with someone respectable for once, instead of that smooth-talking Imperial." Vilkas gets the impression that Ralof isn't fond of Mayenor's friend, and he struggles to remember if he's ever heard any of his Shield-Siblings mention her spending time with an Imperial.

"Whatever happened to him, anyway? We used to see you two riding through here all the time, then suddenly… Nothing." Gerdur pauses, then continues gently. "Did you two have a fight?"

"I don't want to talk about him." The coldness in Mayenor's voice surprises Vilkas.

"I never trusted him," Ralof mutters, and Vilkas hears Mayenor sigh.

"Drop it, Ralof."

"He was always so full of himse-"

"_Drop it_," she repeats through clenched teeth, and Vilkas emerges on the tense silence that follows.

By the time Mayenor and Vilkas finally manage to slip away from Gerdur and Ralof, the sun is hanging far lower in the sky than when they'd stopped, and the sight puts Vilkas in a foul mood that lasts him for the next few miles of road. It's not until the road splits, one way leading farther into the Tamrielic wilderness and the other toward the blackened remains of Helgen, that he comes out of his stupor to glance at Mayenor. Her mouth is set in a grim line as she dutifully nudges her mare toward the burned town, and Vilkas maneuvers his own horse to draw even with her.

"We can go around," he says, voice uncharacteristically gentle. "The road splits again a few miles ahead. We can get to Falkreath that way."

"That's a waste of time, and we're pushing nightfall as it is," she replies, determinedly avoiding his gaze. "We'll just ride around the outside of the walls. There's too much debris to go through the town, even if the gates weren't locked." She urges her mount onward and pulls ahead of him as the road narrows into a small dirt path that hugs the town's wooden walls; Vilkas takes advantage of the silence to peer through the cracks in the walls, catching glimpses of the devastation.

He hadn't frequented Helgen even when it was intact: he and Farkas rarely left Whiterun and its surrounding areas, and Helgen had never been a particularly attractive destination for them on the occasions they decided to explore their homeland. Nonetheless, they'd passed through the town on their way to Falkreath, much like he and Mayenor were now, and he remembered the settlement as small, but orderly. Now, however, the buildings that had once been home to fierce Nords are lying in charred piles splayed across the cobblestoned roads. Only the keep, which had been built with rocks from the river, remains standing.

Mayenor rides quickly past Helgen, scarcely looking up from her horse's neck until the town is behind them. Once the road widens again, Vilkas rides beside her once more.

"What was it like?" He asks. Based on Ralof's reaction when talking about the incident, he knows she's likely reluctant to relive the attack, but his curiosity gets the best of him. When she jerks her gaze to his, he can tell he should have stayed silent.

"Terrible," she grunts after a moment. "The whole situation was terrible. First I got picked up by a bunch of soldiers mistaking me for a Stormcloak, then I was nearly executed, only to be saved by a dragon." Her brows furrow into a frown. "I'd only seen dragons in storybooks as a kid before then, and those old drawings don't do them justice." She looks up and locks gazes with him, looking solemn. "They're much, much worse."

He doesn't press the subject. Something in her eyes, in the shadows that darkened her gaze as she recounted her story, warns him that he's gotten all he will from her. They've never had an actual conversation, never swapped war stories, never gotten to know one another, and the fact that she had been willing to share her story with him, however brief it may have been, sends hope creeping across his mind. Most of their interactions begin with an argument and end with a fight; today, seeing her away from Jorrvaskr and out on the open road, he's beginning to realize that she may not have as many winters under her belt as he does, but she may have experienced just as much in her years.

They don't speak again until the sky is turning pink with the approaching dusk. It's been many years since he's travelled to Falkreath, and he had apparently underestimated the amount of time it would take for them to reach the Hold. Now that night is fast approaching, he's beginning to feel anxious; there have been reports of vampires attacking travelers as of late, and he doesn't want to fall victim to one of their raids. He's about to voice his concern to Mayenor and suggest they ready their weapons when she breaks the silence.

"It'll be dark before we reach the Hold," she informs him, steering her horse next to his so they can talk quietly. Apparently she shares his concerns about being attacked. "I know where we can stop for the night. It's just outside the town, and we'll be safe there." She doesn't wait for an answer, instead kicking her horse into a trot. He follows her, shoulders tense as he peers into the woods on either side of the road, alert for any sign of danger. After a few minutes, Mayenor guides her horse off the main road, skirting alongside a pond and glancing back to ensure he's still following. They travel through the trees for a moment longer before emerging in front of a large manor house.

Once they're past the woods and in the clearing, Mayenor dismounts, leading her horse to the two-horse stable that sits on a hill across from the manor. Dumbly, Vilkas follows, staring in awe at the lavish home.

"Whose house is this?" He asks, moving his horse to occupy the stall next to hers.

"We'll be safe here," she replies, not looking at him. "There's plenty of food and drink inside, and a couple of beds. All without spending Companion coin." She unbridles her mare as she speaks, placing the tack on a waiting pummel and gesturing for him to do the same. Vilkas grooms his steed quickly, keeping an eye on Mayenor the whole time. The ease and comfort with which she moves around the property makes him suspicious, and Ralof's earlier comment about her Imperial friend comes into his mind unbidden. The owner of this manor is, without a doubt, wealthy; is he Mayenor's mystery associate?

They enter the manor without knocking, and Vilkas lingers in the entryway while she moves into the main hall. She ducks through a door to her left, calling for Vilkas to make himself at home. He's examining a glass sword mounted on the wall when the manor doors open again. A Redguard woman, wearing a cloth hood and holding a line of dripping fish in one hand, enters. As soon as he gaze lands on Vilkas, she drops the fish, pulling dual, curved swords from sheaths before Vilkas can think to react; instinctively, he pulls his own greatsword over his shoulder, falling into a fighting stance.

"You shouldn't be here," the Redguard warns, gripping the hilts of her swords tightly.

"I was about to say the same thing," Vilkas returns, wondering what Mayenor has gotten them into. As if hearing his thoughts, the Nord girl rounds the corner and sees the pair.

"Rayya! There you are!" She sighs, putting a hand on her hip as she eyes the scene before her. The Redguard blinks once, then sheathes her swords and bows her head to Mayenor.

"I didn't know you were back, My Thane." Her tone, which had been so threatening only moments before, holds a reverent quality.

"How many times have I asked you to call me by my name?" Mayenor groans. "I was trying to find you so I could tell you I'm here. And I see you've already met Vilkas." She casts a bemused glance at the man, who still stands with his sword drawn. "Put that thing away," she chides him. "Vilkas, this is Rayya. Rayya, Vilkas. Any questions?"

"_My Thane_?" Vilkas arches an eyebrow at his Shield-Sister, who averts her gaze from his.

"Milady is Thane of Falkreath," Rayya supplies. She's retrieved her fish and now walks past the pair into the main hall, where she stokes the fire under the cooking pot. "And of Riften and Whiterun. I am honored to serve as her housecarl."

"To be fair, Jarl Balgruuf only made me his Thane because I warned him of the dragon attack," Mayenor mumbles, fidgeting under the intense stare Vilkas is giving her.

"And then defeated the dragon at the western watchtower," Rayya retorts, and Mayenor lets out a soft sigh.

"I had no idea of your position." Vilkas inclines his head toward Mayenor respectfully, and when he looks up once more, she is scowling at him.

"Being Thane doesn't change who I am," she informs him, voice laced with annoyance. "If I was a whelp to you before, I should be a whelp to you now. I don't need or _want _your phony respect."

Out of the corner of his eye, Vilkas can see Rayya watching them while she prepares the fish to be cooked, but he hardly notices her. Instead, he fights not to grin at Mayenor, not to pull her into a bone-crushing hug. She's clearly a more prominent figure in Skyrim than he or any of his fellow Companions had realized, but she's still the stubborn, willful woman-child that first dared hope to join the warriors of Whiterun.

Mayenor breaks eye contact with him when she apparently hears a noise from the room beyond the main hall. She puts a finger to her lips, indicating for Rayya and Vilkas to be quiet, and draws a dagger from a hidden sheathe under her right sleeve. Silently, she creeps toward the noise, eyes unblinkingly focused. Rayya stands from her position near the fireplace and draws her swords; across the room, Vilkas once again unsheathes his sword, following the women toward the back rooms of the house. He can't help but think that, considering Mayenor has sworn the house was safe, he's spending a lot of time with his weapon in-hand.

"What the- _Are you fucking kidding me?_" Vilkas and Rayya lunge into the back room when Mayenor's screech rings out, but Rayya immediately lowers her blades, looking annoyed, when she spots the problem. The back room is small, more of a passageway from the main hall to the next room than anything else, and it holds a small, square table. Seated in one of the chairs is a man with red hair and a bright grin; both women are scowling down at him, but their obvious displeasure only seems to heighten his amusement. As Vilkas watches, he levers himself to his feet and steps toward Mayenor, who folds her arms across her chest and gives him a look of intense irritation. He ignores it, grin softening into a smile that, to Vilkas, seems startlingly affectionate.

"Hello, lass," he murmurs, stopping a scant few inches in front of Mayenor. "I've missed you."


	4. Pieces of the Past

I promise there's a legitimate chapter coming up, but, in the meantime, I couldn't resist a little one-on-one time between Mayenor and Brynjolf. So, please accept this short pseudo-chapter to hold you over until I get the next real chapter done.

(To those of you who are Brynjolf fangirls, like me, this is for you.)

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* * *

Mayenor leans against the railing of the balcony at the rear of her house, gazing across the lake with a furrowed brow. Below her, down the hill, she can see the altar that attracts necromancers almost weekly and thinks, for the umpteenth time, that she needs to remove the construct and ward the area against invaders. She gets tired of constantly fighting them off, but she suspects that Rayya enjoys the combat practice while Mayenor is off adventuring. Maybe if she didn't have the Redguard to depend on, she'd be more concerned about the wizards; with the house under Rayya's protection, though, she suspects nothing short of the apocalypse could enter the property unbidden.

Nothing, that is, except Brynjolf.

The thief is lounging against the railing nearby, but his back is turned to the lake; instead, his eyes are fixed on her. She recognizes the look in those eyes, and she yearns to let herself fall prey to the unguarded fondness that shines in his gaze. Divines know she's succumbed to it time and again, but that had been _before _Brynjolf used her to rid the Thieves' Guild of Mercer's poisonous influence, then dismissed her once her job was done.

"Are you going to ignore me all night, lass?" His voice is soft, and the lilting accent that sweetens his words sends a tingle of desire across her mind.

"Will you leave if I do?" Even to her ears, the retort lacks malice.

"You don't want me to leave," he hums, pushing away from the railing and closing the space between them. He positions himself next to her, so close their thighs share a feather-touch, and drapes a lean arm around her hips. Determinedly, she stares straight ahead, fighting her longing to melt into his embrace and let him have his way with her.

She hates the way he makes her feel. She knows that she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and she knows that she has an instinct, a responsibility, to be in control of whatever situation she faces. But with Brynjolf's fingers whispering across her skin, she becomes putty in his skillful hands. He can make her do almost anything if he accompanies the request with secret kisses and breathy promises, and he _knows _it. He uses it to his advantage, and she resents him as much as she craves him.

"What are you even doing here?" She shrugs his arm away and moves from the railing, feeling a cold emptiness where he had been. "And how did you get in? I told Rayya to get new locks…"

"She did." Brynjolf chuckles. "Have you forgotten my profession so soon, lass?"

"I ordered extremely difficult locks," she snaps in response. "You may be able to pick normal locks, but these were designed by a thief to use _against_ thieves. _And _I had Enthir get them enchanted at the College." Brynjolf nods.

"Aye, he and Vex did a good job. I would never have been able to pick them. Luckily, Vex keeps a key for every lock she encounters." Smirking, Brynjolf dips his fingers into a pocket in his armor, producing a small, bronze key. Mayenor scowls and lunges for it, but he lifts it out of her reach, taking advantage of her momentum by grabbing her tightly around the waist and pulling her up against him.

"Now, lass, why are you trying to keep me out? That ship sailed long ago…" His voice is a low rumble in her ears, and she feels chills spread down her arms.

"I only let _friends _have keys, and since you don't have _time _for me anymore…" She wrenches out of his grasp and glowers at him, trying not to notice that she sounds petulant and childish. Brynjolf sighs, lifting a hand to rub his temples.

"Is _that _why you haven't been home in so long? Lass, it's nothing personal. I've just had my hands full-"

"Full of a certain Dunmer!" Her shrill accusation surprises them both, and, for a moment, Brynjolf's calm demeanor slips into an expression of shock.

"Karliah? Lass, what we had ended decades ago, before she even went into hiding." Mayenor looks away from the redhead, and he lets out a long sigh. "I knew I shouldn't have told you about our relationship…" He steps over to her and takes a gentle hold of her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "That was a long time ago, Mayenor, and it barely meant anything _then_. She always loved Gallus; I was just a distraction when he didn't have time for her." Mayenor risks a glance toward him and sees that his lips are twisted into a wry smile. "Same as I am for you, if your friend down there is any indication."

It takes Mayenor a moment to realize that Brynjolf is referring to Vilkas; when she does, she nearly chokes on a laugh.

"Who, Vilkas? Don't be an idiot, Bryn. We only tolerate each other because there's gold in it for us."

"Aye, _you_ may feel that way." His voice is serious. "But _he _does not." Mayenor resists the urge to roll her eyes.

"You're paranoid."

"I know men," he insists, frowning. "And I don't trust him."

"You know _thieves_," Mayenor corrects, shaking her head. "Vilkas isn't like you – like _us_. He's all about honor and loyalty. _Your _intentions may not be pure, but his are. If they even exist, which I doubt."

"My intentions?" A playful, wicked smirk flickers across his lips, and he steps toward her once more. She knows what's coming, but she can't bring herself to move away. "_Intention _suggests there's no guarantee I'll get what I want, and we both know you won't say no to me." He bends to kiss her, but she gathers her willpower and ducks away from him, heading for the door that leads back into the house. She turns the handle, then pauses and looks back at him, a slight frown shadowing her face in the orange light of dusk.

"I do what I please."


	5. Striking the Heart

Hey look, a chapter!

Now, before you all decide you hate me (which would be entirely justified, considering how long this took me to get up), just know that I'm really sorry to have kept you all waiting. This chapter has been three-quarters of the way done since two days after the last chapter went up, but after a car wreck and an increase in hours at work (boo and yay, respectively), it got put on the backburner for a while.

So. In order to apologize, I'm posting two chapters in one night! Yay!

Hope this is worth your wait! Apologies again!

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* * *

Vilkas hasn't seen much of Mayenor since they reached Lakeview Manor. After they'd discovered the red-haired intruder, she had stormed out the back door of the house, and he, winking at Rayya, had been close on her heels.

He had wandered back into the main hall with Rayya, who continued preparing the fish, though her cuts were more forceful than before. Vilkas had stayed silent for a long while, brooding about the stranger. Finally, he looks at Rayya.

"Who is that guy?" He asks, trying to sound casual. The Redguard doesn't look at him, intent on cutting vegetables to go with the fish that is now cooking over the fire.

"Brynjolf," she answers, and the tone of her voice makes Vilkas think that she doesn't much like him. "I _told _her getting new locks wouldn't stop him. _I _said she should get one of her friends at the College to ward this whole place. It'd help with the giants, too, but _no_." Rayya grumbles to herself as though she's forgotten that Vilkas is listening intently from across the table. She snorts. "She didn't really want to keep him out. She just wanted to make a point."

"They aren't friends, then?" Vilkas presses, and Rayya looks up at him sharply, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"It's not my place to talk about Milady's friends," she says, voice clipped. "If you have questions, you can ask her yourself."

Vilkas doesn't question her anymore about Brynjolf; he doesn't need to. Rayya is obviously familiar with him, and he clearly shares some history with Mayenor; his imagination can fill in the missing pieces.

"Where should I put my things?" He asks, standing and grabbing for the rucksack he had brought in with him when they first entered the house. Rayya jerks her chin toward the stairs at his left.

"Up the stairs. There's two beds on the left side; choose one of them. There're chests you can store your things in."

He ascends the stairs slowly, still deep in thought. He's learned more about Mayenor today than he'd expected, and all it's shown him is that he knows _nothing _about her. And, what's worse, there are other people – other _men _– who know her better than he can ever hope to. Her relationship with Ralof, at least, seemed like nothing more than a friendship, but it doesn't take a seer to realize there's something more between her and Brynjolf. The fact that she wasn't happy to see him indicates that whatever they had is now in the past, but Vilkas can't help but wonder if Brynjolf got that message.

As Vilkas reaches the top of the stairs and enters the bedroom, a door at the back of the house slams shut, and he realizes that the hallway behind the bedroom holds a door to what must be a back porch. Mayenor is standing with her back to the door, frowning at the ground, and he resists the urge to ask her what's on her mind. Before he has the chance to, though, she moves into the room on the right side of the house, then down the stairs to the main hall.

"I'm going down to the lake," he can hear her tell Rayya.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No. I need some time to think." There's a moment of silence. "Where's Vilkas?"

"In the spare bedroom."

"Good. Don't let him talk to Brynjolf."

Rayya voices an affirmative, and Vilkas can hear Mayenor's footsteps leading to the back of the house, then the sound of a door opening and closing once more. He lowers his pack onto a bed and begins rifling through it, stripping off his heavy armor with a low sigh of relief and exchanging it for brown breeches and a loose, linen shirt. Below him, he can hear the gentle scrape of metal against wood as Rayya stirs dinner.

He thinks back to Mayenor's instructions to keep him away from Brynjolf, and he wonders at her reasoning. For a brief moment, terror squeezes his heart: does she know that he loves her? Is she trying to prevent a fight between her a_ctual _lover and a man who yearns to hold that title?

He tries to convince himself that it's impossible, that if Farkas hasn't noticed the affection, she couldn't possibly have. But he can't shake a sick feeling of dread that's settled in his stomach, and, suddenly, the air in the manor feels thick and oppressive. He feels like a fool, to love a woman who is the greatest enigma in his life. And now, standing in a home he didn't even know she had, he feels like he's nothing more than an intruder in her life.

He moves quickly to the back door and bursts through it, sucking in the fresh air as though he hasn't breathed in hours. The door leads to a patio that runs along the back and both sides of the house; tucked against the wall to his right is a small table and two chairs, but otherwise, the porch is empty. He takes a few deep breaths and forces his muscles to relax, forces himself to admire the view and forget that he may well be drowning in unrequited love.

Across the lake, a mountain stretches into the clouds, starkly black against the fuchsia sky, and he can just make out the mammoth shapes of Bleak Falls Barrow against the darkening twilight. The lake stretches on in both directions, nicely shaded by the trees that line the bank, and Vilkas can see a dirt path that meanders down the side of the cliff on which the house sits, leading to the lake.

With a start, Vilkas realizes that someone is swimming close to the nearest shore; he squints and sees that it's Mayenor. On the shore, her clothing sits in a pile, serving as a pillow to her sword. His pulse begins to quicken. From this distance, he can't see the details of her body, but he can imagine her arms slicing through the water, her long legs trailing behind her like ribbons dangling from a package waiting to be unwrapped. He can imagine her hair, which she usually keeps pulled tightly back lest it hinder her in battle, floating around her, framing her face like an aura. He can imagine her hard stomach and thighs and forearms, and he can imagine her breasts, _soft_-

"Enjoying the view?"

Vilkas jumps and whirls around, hand instinctively rising to grab the hilt of a sword that isn't there. Brynjolf stands only a few feet away, watching him. Vilkas scowls.

"I didn't hear you coming."

"Stealth is particularly useful in my line of work."

"What are you, a _thief_?" Brynjolf's lips twitch into a half-smile, and he offers Vilkas an ironic sort of bow.

"At your service." It takes Vilkas a moment to realize that the other man is serious.

"Does she know that?" He doesn't mention her name, but they both know he's referring to Mayenor.

"Does she…?" Brynjolf stares at him for a moment, then throws his head back and laughs. Even to Vilkas, the sound is catchy and infectious; nonetheless, he eyes the other man's exposed Adam's apple and considers how easy it would be to slit his throat.

"Of course she knows I'm a thief." Brynjolf is still chuckling, and the grin with which he surveys Vilkas is infuriating. "That's how we met."

"You tried to pick her pocket?"

"_Hardly_." Brynjolf's grin turns affectionate as he reminisces. "I caught her stealing jewelry from one of the stalls in the marketplace. Offered her protection. Independent thieves are at a lot of risk; with the Guild, though…" He drifts off and shrugs, but Vilkas is no longer paying attention.

He, like every other person in Skyrim, has heard the rumors about the Thieves' Guild's growing strength. Their influence has always been tangible in Riften, but it has recently spread to neighboring Holds. He's even heard, once or twice, of guards in Whiterun turning a blind eye to certain peoples' crimes. The thought that Mayenor is involved with such seedy characters is an affront to his morals, and yet, somehow the news doesn't surprise him. He doesn't need to be particularly familiar with her to know that she has a few traits he considers unsavory: she has a quick temper, and, though he often uses it to his advantage, he knows it's gotten her into trouble; she possesses a blood thirst unparalleled by even his own beast blood-tainted savagery; her greed, as he realized while watching her shamelessly plunder a pile of corpses in a bandit camp, knows no bounds; and, if Torvar is to be believed – which he rarely is – she has an insatiable hunger for intimacy.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Vilkas turns his attention back to Brynjolf, who has settled against the railing and watches Mayenor, not even bothering to pretend he isn't staring.

"I hadn't noticed," Vilkas lies, forcing himself to look away from her nude form.

"You don't fool me, Companion," the thief laughs, glancing sideways at him. "What are you doing out here if not watching her bathe?"

"Making sure she's safe." His response comes too quickly to be believable, and he can see Brynjolf's smirk stretching wider.

"If you think she can't take care of herself, you're a fool." He shakes his head, eyes shining with a cautious admiration. "I've never seen a woman fight as well as that lass. Nor a man, for that matter." A frown flickers across his face as he says this. "Not _any_ man."

There's something in the shadow that, for just a second, darkens Brynjolf's calm demeanor that makes Vilkas think there's a story behind his words, but he finds that he's not interested in hearing about the other man's exploits with Mayenor.

"She still has a lot to learn," he grunts. "She lacks a lot of technique unarmed. You get rid of her sword, she's a goner." Brynjolf's smirk returns in full force as he eyes Vilkas with a look of what seems to be contempt.

"And you're her protector, I take it?" His tone is mocking, and Vilkas bristles, fists clenching around the porch railing.

"We work together; that's it."

"Funny, that's exactly what she said." In the blink of an eye, Brynjolf is inches away from Vilkas, and, though the thief is smaller than Vilkas, he feels a cold wariness creep down his spine.

"I see the way you look at her." Brynjolf's voice is rough and low. "You're good at hiding it, but I see it. You _want _her."

Hearing it voiced, hearing his primal need to hold her summarized so simply, somehow makes it more real to Vilkas, and his dormant affection rages into a possessive infatuation; he scowls at the other man, roughly shoving him back a few steps.

"I don't recommend getting in my face again," he growls, and, though Brynjolf doesn't look intimidated, he has the sense not to move closer once more.

"You want to try with May? Fine, go ahead. Good _luck_." The thief's demeanor, usually so casual and suave, screams a challenge at Vilkas, and he squares his shoulders, pulling himself to his full height. Brynjolf is smaller and probably faster than Vilkas, and he, like Mayenor, is likely to be laden with concealed weapons, but now, with his nonexistent claim on Mayenor threatened, Vilkas is itching for a fight.

Just then, the door opens, and Rayya steps onto the porch, looking between the men with an annoyed expression. They ignore her, gazes locked in a staring match, until she steps between them.

"Dinner's ready," she tells them firmly, and they, reluctantly, flick their gazes to her.

"I'll get May," Brynjolf offers, affability returning in the face of someone other than his competitor. He begins toward the side of the house, where stairs lead to the ground, but Rayya cuts him off.

"She'll come in when she's ready," the Redguard informs him, and the warning glint in her eye makes it clear that she, like Vilkas, suspects his lascivious intentions. "Go downstairs."

To Vilkas's surprise, Brynjolf obeys without argument, brushing past Vilkas on his way to the door. Rayya fixes her narrowed eyes on Vilkas.

"You too. Downstairs. I hardly think Milady would appreciate you _watching _her." Vilkas feels heat flood his cheeks, and he scowls, face a mask of indignation.

"I was not _watching _her," he retorts. "And I resent the implication."

"That was no implication," she replies flatly, jerking her head toward the door with an expectant look. He does his best not to look like he's been caught red-handed as he follows Brynjolf through the door.

They eat in silence, and, though Vilkas casts period glances toward Brynjolf, the thief acts as though they never spoke. He looks completely comfortable, lounging at the table in the main hall as if in his own home, and his familiarity with Mayenor's personal space vexes Vilkas to no end.

Mayenor returns as Rayya is clearing the table, and Vilkas has to force himself not to stare at her. She's traded her armor for a plain dress, and her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, the damp locks holding a slight curl. He's never seen her with her hair down, and he didn't realize how long it was. Now, seeing it statically cling to her face, her clothes, her collar bones, he can't help but imagine it haloed around her face as she lay beneath him.

He looks quickly down at the table, heart racing. He's fantasized about Mayenor – about holding her and touching her and kissing her – since she first joined the Companions, but he's rarely had such _intimate _thoughts about her save for in the private darkness of his room in Jorrvaskr. He's never before been overcome with a longing to push her down and bruise her with kisses, just from _looking _at her. But somehow, knowing that he isn't the only one who wants Mayenor makes him want her that much more.

"There's food leftover," Rayya says, gesturing to the pans resting on the hearth of the fireplace.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," Mayenor replies, and she gives Rayya a friendly smile that causes a stir of irrational jealousy in Vilkas. Rayya frowns, looking concerned.

"You haven't eaten since midday." Her tone is almost accusatory, and Mayenor chuckles.

"I'm fine. I had some fruit from the garden before I came in." Rayya hums, obviously not satisfied with Mayenor's response, but she lets it go, and Mayenor turns her attention to Vilkas, who cautiously meets her eye.

"We'll go see the Jarl tomorrow. Don't bother getting up early; Siddgeir is still hung over until midday, at least." She snorts, and Rayya purses her lips.

"You shouldn't talk about the Jarl like that," the housecarl chides, but her words are met with an indifferent shrug.

"I call it like I see it," Mayenor says primly.

"I defer to your judgment," Vilkas interrupts. "You know Falkreath better than I do." His tone is reverent, reminding her of her title, and she purses her lips.

"Right. I'm pretty sure I know where the bandits' camp is; Rayya and I had to scare off a few of them before they got the message that this place is not to be bothered. They always seem to come from the northwest, but we'll have to check with the raid reports to make sure I'm right."

"I saw some caves across the lake from Half-Moon Mill," Rayya supplies helpfully, and Mayenor nods.

"The mountains across the lake are full of caves. I've explored most of the ones around here, but I haven't had much time to map them all out." She pauses, then smiles at her housecarl. "Maybe you can investigate some of the closer ones while I'm gone? Maybe you'll figure out where those damned giants are coming from. I swear, if they carry off one more of my cows…"

"I'll see what I can do." Though her response is calm, Vilkas can tell that Rayya is eager to explore the caves. She's obviously a skilled soldier, and he can imagine that being bound to Lakeview Manor often leaves her feeling restless.

"See that you don't get yourself killed," Mayenor warns, arching an eyebrow at the Redguard.

"You should take your own advice, lass." Brynjolf breaks into the conversation with ease, and he smirks at the women as they turn to look at him. "What, did you forget I'm here?"

"I wish I could," Mayenor snaps, but her irritated tone doesn't seem to faze the redhead. She scowls and abruptly turns toward the stairs. "You should get some rest, Vilkas. I assume Rayya showed you your bed?" She doesn't wait for a response, instead pausing on the stairs to look at Brynjolf. "And I trust _you_ can find your way back to Riften. Goodnight." And with that, she disappears into her bedroom.

Vilkas stands from his chair soon after she leaves, mumbling a vague goodnight to Rayya as he ascends to his own bedroom. To his surprise, Brynjolf follows.

"I'm not travelling back to Riften at night," the thief says, looking affronted, when Vilkas pins him with a suspicious look. "There are vampires out there." As the pair enters the bedroom, Brynjolf tosses himself onto the empty bed, leaning comfortably against the pillows. "You don't mind sharing a room for the night, do you?" Vilkas's eyes narrow into a venomous glare, and Brynjolf chuckles. "Didn't think so. Sleep well, _Companion_." Somehow, Vilkas's title sounds like an insult rolling off the thief's quick tongue.

Vilkas makes a point of ignoring the man as he extinguishes the lights and slips into bed, and, with the darkness blanketing him, his mind begins to drift. He tries to think about the task ahead, to review what he knows of the Falkreath terrain so he can guess what they'll be facing tomorrow, but his thoughts keep lingering on the fact that Mayenor is in bed mere feet from him. Even on the odd occasions she stays at Jorrvaskr, she's always down the hall, surrounded by Njada and Ria on one side and Torvar and Athis on the other. But here, she's alone, so close that he fancies he can hear her breathing in the quiet darkness.

For a wild moment, he considers joining her in bed. It would be so easy to slip into her room and get under the covers with her, to pull her hard up against him and quiet her with kisses before she even has time to question him, to finally lose himself in her as he's longed to do since he first laid eyes on her golden hair and stubborn chin.

He almost doesn't hear Brynjolf creep out of bed and sneak past into the hallway that runs between the bedrooms. He almost misses the thief's airy chuckle and gloating pause; he almost doesn't realize that Brynjolf _wants _to be heard. He _wants _Vilkas to see him; he wants him to know that Mayenor already belongs to someone else.

By the time Vilkas thinks to confront the other man, he's already padded down the short hall and turned the corner. Vainly, Vilkas strains to hear some sign of an argument, some indication that Mayenor doesn't want him in bed with her. Instead, he hears the quiet murmur of a conversation; trying to ignore the knot in his stomach, he blocks his ears with the pillow and forces himself into an uneasy sleep.


	6. Whispers in the Dark

As promised, here's the second chapter of the night!

I'll do my best to get back to updating on a relatively regular schedule. These chapters are dragging a little for me because I'm really eager to move on to the next/main part of the plot. Hopefully, though, I can get the next few whipped up pretty quickly.

Also, I'm sad to say this will probably be the last chapter to exclusively feature Brynjolf. That said, I hope all you Brynjolf fangirls out there enjoy him as much as I do!

Thanks to all my readers!

topside

* * *

In her bedroom, Mayenor reads in the glow of a Mage Light spell. He slips in unnoticed, she too absorbed in her book to hear the whisper-soft touch of his feet against the stone floor. She doesn't look up until the bed moves with the weight of him sitting, and she greets him with a fistful of flames. He puts his hands up, palms out, in surrender, face sporting a lopsided grin; slowly, she extinguishes the flames, giving him an annoyed look.

"You shouldn't sneak up on me," she chastises, but her tone lacks malice.

"You should pay more attention to your surroundings," he responds, voice chiding. "If I had been an assassin, you'd be dead."

"If there was an assassin in my house, he'd already have killed everyone else. And if he got through Rayya and Vilkas, I had no chance, anyway," she retorts.

"What, you don't consider me a challenge to kill?" He feigns offense.

"You're best when your opponent doesn't know you're there. Fair fights aren't your strong point"" Her words are clipped, and he sighs, knowing she's still upset with him.

"Do you really think I'm sleeping with Karliah?" He asks, and she purses her lips, shutting her book with a snap.

"I don't know what to think," she admits, standing to replace her book in one of the bookshelves that lines the wall beside her bed. Instead of returning to the bed, she leans against the wall, folding her arms across her chest. "What am I _supposed_ to think? Ever since you picked me off the street, you've barely left me alone. And now that the Guild's up and running again, you don't have time for me anymore, but you're always at Nightingale Hall 'consulting' Karliah. It's like you only wanted me around so I could get rid of Mercer, and now that that's done, I've served my purpose."

"Lass, I didn't even know Mercer needed getting rid of when I invited you to join the Guild. All I knew was you were a gutsy thief, if reckless. I thought you could help us pull off some impressive jobs so we could get our name back out there; I never expected you to overthrow the Guild Master and reveal a decades-old conspiracy." His words are wry, but he softens, hesitating. "And I certainly didn't intend for _this_ to happen." He gestures between them, indicating that he means their relationship.

"And you don't intend for it to go anywhere." It's a statement, not a question, and she arches an eyebrow expectantly, clearly daring him to contradict her.

"I don't know what I intend. I never thought to settle, and you're certainly not the settling type."

"You could travel with me." She almost cringes at the clear desperation in her words; she wants, more than anything, for him to pull her close and promise he'll never leave her side. Instead, he frowns.

"And where would that leave the Guild?"

"I don't know. I don't care! Your life doesn't _have_ to revolve around the Guild."

"You want it to revolve around you, instead?" Though his words are gentle, she looks away, stung.

"I'd like to have a place in your life, at least. I think I've earned that."

She looks up as he twines his fingers with hers, tugging her toward the bed. Grudgingly, she allows him to pull her down, and he leans against the headboard, folding her tightly into his arms.

"You do have a place in my life," he murmurs. "More than I'd like, to be honest. It doesn't do for a professional thief to let something become more important than survival, but... When that chamber started flooding and Karliah and I got out, when I realized you weren't there... I thought for sure Mercer had managed to hold you down there with him. I thought he'd somehow beaten you and escaped. I thought... May, I thought I'd lost you." As he speaks, he tightens his hold on her, and she finds herself finally unable to resist him. She leans into him, tucking her head in the crook of his neck; he presses a kiss into her hair.

"What does that mean, then?" She asks after a moment, cursing herself for letting him lure her back in while simultaneously ignoring the desperate fluttering of her stomach.

"It means I love you, lass," he chuckles, and she feels her pulse skyrocket.

"That... That's not what I meant," she mutters, knowing he expects her to return his declaration. "Are you going to travel with me?"

"The Guild-" he begins, but she cuts him off, angry.

"You have to choose, Bryn. You have to choose me or the Guild. I can't be tied to Riften; I have—other responsibilities."

"With the Companions?" His tone is accusatory, and she scowls, jerking out of his grasp.

"I joined them before I joined the Guild," she retorts. "If anything, they deserve more loyalty than you."

"Don't, lass," he sighs, taking her hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that. I just... I don't like the idea of you being with another man, even if it's just for jobs."

"I told you there's nothing between us." She rolls her eyes, returning to his arms. "And you wouldn't have to worry if you'd travel with me."

"Lass..."

"I was serious, Bryn. I can't stay with the Guild permanently. You knew that when I joined."

"Fine, don't be tied to the Guild. Just to me."

"I can't commit to you if you won't commit to me," she argues. "If you stay in Riften, you'll get so wrapped up in Guild business that I'll be an annoyance when I do come back. You know that as soon as we stop spending so much time together, this is going to fall apart." She pauses, and when he doesn't say anything, she sighs. "You have to choose, Bryn. I'm not staying in Riften; you have to decide if you are."

The next several minutes stretch in heavy silence, and she presses against him, trying to reconcile the fact that this may be her last chance to be with him. She's loathe to force him into a decision, terrified he'll choose not to be with her; a secret part of her, though, hopes he'll do just that. She's always enjoyed the freedom her adventuring life provides, and the thought of having something - some_one_ - binding her to a particular place sends terror ripping through her chest.

"If you have to think that much," she says after a while, breaking the silence, "I think your answer's pretty clear."

"Lass." The word comes out as a breathy rasp, and she recognizes the desire cloaking his voice; it sends chills down her spine.

"Don't think you can distract me with sex," she berates him, weakly. Already she feels the familiar tingling numbness spreading from where their bodies touch; she knows she's at his mercy now.

"I'm not." His gravelly chuckle makes her breath catch in her throat. "Can't we talk about this is the morning, though? I've missed you so much..." His fingers, thin and nimble, whisper across her collar bones; his lips press against her temple.

Before she knows what's happening, he's lifted her into his lap, and she's straddling him, his hands fisted in her hair, pulling her lips down to meet his. There's no doubt that she possesses more brute strength than he, but, when his breath mingles with hers, she feels weak as a child.

"Bryn," she gasps as he fumbles with the lacing up the back of her dress.

"Mmm?" He hums, kissing the junction between her neck and shoulder.

"Please-" Her mind fogs as the thin fabric of her dress gives and his hand slips onto the exposed skin in the dip of her spine.

"Please what?" His breath is hot in her ear.

She wants to tell him to stop, to give her an answer because she's not there for his entertainment, to demand he stop seducing her to avoid conversations he finds distasteful. But, as he slips her dress off her body with alarming skill, and as his hips jut up to ghost against hers, all she manages is a soft moan.

"Kiss me," she begs, and she barely catches a flash of his grin before he throws her onto the mattress beside him and rolls over to cover her body with his own. His lips explore every inch of her, revisiting the familiar crevices of her curves while she writhes with agonizing desire; he lingers on her thighs, and she lifts her hips toward him, silently begging him to make her squirm and cry out with ecstasy. He chuckles gruffly and sits back on his haunches, surveying her bare form with an expression of odd pride.

"It's nothing you haven't seen before," she grunts, wriggling her hips in a vain attempt to find the friction she longs for.

"That doesn't make it any less beautiful," he retorts, running his hands up her stomach and cupping her breasts gently. As his thumbs rub circles around each nipple, she bites her lip against a groan, arching her back into his touch; grinning, he leans forward to brush his lips against the hardened bundles of nerves, eliciting a whine of pleasure. He pulls back, earning himself a venomous glare.

"I hate you," she snarls, and he throws back his head with a throaty laugh. She takes advantage of his distraction to pop the buttons on his trousers, catching him by surprise. He doesn't argue as she slides them down his hips, leaning back to strip off his shirt. Once bare, he falls back on top of her, pushing her legs apart with a knee pressed to her groin. She spreads them eagerly, fisting her hands in his long hair and holding his lips against hers, impatiently awaiting his presence between her legs. He roughly separates his lips from hers, just a hair, and fiercely connects their gazes.

"Take it back."

"What?" She asks, startled and annoyed by his hesitation.

"Say you don't hate me."

"Of course I don't, Bryn." She bucks her hips toward him, insistently, but he lifts away.

"I love you, May," he breathes; she looks away from his sincerity, but he grips her chin tightly and forces her to look at him. "Tell me you love me too."

"I—I thought we were going to talk about this in the morning," she stammers, squirming again, this time from discomfort.

"You don't." The disappointment in his voice sends a pang of guilt through her heart, and she tries to make herself tell him that he means the world to her, that she cares about him just as much as he cares about her.

But she can't.

Instead, she sits up and cups his face in her hand, leaning her forehead against his and looking deeply into his dark eyes.

"You know how I feel about you," she murmurs, and kisses him; even as he kisses her back and finally gives her the release she's been craving, she knows that isn't the answer he wanted.


	7. The Hunt

He wakes up shortly after dawn, habit forcing him into consciousness though he tossed and turned all night. As soon as he opens his eyes, he turns his head to look at the other bed, willing Brynjolf to be there.

He isn't, and Vilkas scowls. He can imagine the thief, lean body curled around Mayenor, her head resting on her shoulder and her tousled golden hair tickling his cheek. He can almost see the smirk ghosting Brynjolf's lips even as he sleeps, and the image makes Vilkas clench his jaw in jealous fury. It takes all his willpower not to storm into the room and rip the redhead from Mayenor's bed; instead, he marches to the back door and yanks it open, slamming it shut behind him as he steps onto the porch, quietly hoping that the noise will jar Brynjolf awake.

The morning air is refreshingly cool against Vilkas's anger-heated face, and he breathes it in, trying to calm his racing heart. He's always been fond of Mayenor, but this new desperate possessiveness over her almost frightens him, and that unfamiliar fear only makes him even angrier about the whole situation.

He forces himself calmer, crossing to the porch at the left of the house, where Mayenor has set up a small training area, complete with an archery target and a straw practice dummy. From a chest against the wall, he takes a greatsword, testing its weight. It's old and slightly rusted, but the balance is good, and he hoists it over his head, slashing experimentally. It's heavier than the sword Eorlund forged for him, and the weight surprises him; he stumbles, catching himself against the wall.

He wonders why Mayenor keeps the sword in her collection; it's so heavy, he can't imagine she's able to wield it. Then, he remembers Brynjolf's claim from the night before, that she's the best fighter he's ever met, and he wonders if there's more to the girl than she's let him see, if she's hiding her true strength from the Companions. If she is, he thinks bitterly, it won't be the first thing she's kept from them.

He steps away from the wall and grips the greatsword once more, squaring himself in front of the training dummy. He breathes deeply and closes his eyes, focusing his mind on training with the ease of practice. He's spent the last two decades honing his two-handed skill, and now it's become an almost therapeutic activity for him.

He fights with the training dummy for over an hour before replacing the greatsword in its chest and heading down to the lake for a quick bath. When he returns, it's halfway to midday, and the air is already growing thick and hot. He reenters the house on the main level, expecting to find Mayenor eating breakfast and getting ready to confront the Jarl. Instead, Rayya sits alone at the large table, polishing her curved swords.

"Where's Mayenor?" Vilkas asks, plucking an apple from a bowl on a side table.

"Still asleep, I assume." Rayya's voice is low and dry, and Vilkas realizes that she knows Brynjolf spent the night with Mayenor. Vilkas swallows the rising wave of jealousy that threatens to overcome him as he once again imagines the pair intertwined upstairs.

"We need to get on the road. The Jarl is expecting us." He glances up the stairs toward Mayenor's bedroom, grimacing unconsciously. "I should wake her..."

"I'll do it," Rayya offers, standing and returning her sword to its sheath on her hip. Vilkas nods his appreciation, wondering if she can see his relief.

The housecarl ascends the stairs with a grim look on her face, shoulders squared as she heads into Mayenor's bedroom. At the table, Vilkas tries not to imagine the sight she's walking into.

He expects to see Brynjolf swagger from the room, looking smug, but minutes pass and the thief doesn't emerge. Instead, Mayenor bursts from the room, shoulders bare over the blanket that's wrapped around her slim form. She's frowning as she stomps down the stairs, ignoring Vilkas, who watches her search both the armory and the greenhouse before whirling to face him.

"Where is he?" She demands, glowering at him.

"Who?"

"Brynjolf!" She says, tone suggesting he should have known that. Vilkas looks surprised.

"I thought he was still upstairs."

"_Shit_," Mayenor curses, brow creasing in what appears to be worry. "Maybe he's outside..." She murmurs to herself, then turns on her heel and hurries bare-footed into the entryway; Vilkas, curious, follows her.

She's about to open the front door when she notices a small piece of parchment hanging from the wood. She pauses and rips it from its mooring, snapping it open so forcefully in her haste that she nearly rips it at the seam. As the paper unfolds, a small key clatters to the stone floor.

_Lass,_

_ I had to go home. We'll talk later, when things have settled. This is the only copy of your key Vex or I has. You know where to find me when you decide you want me to have it back._

_Brynjolf_

Vilkas watches Mayenor's face grow stony as she reads the note, sees her shoulders tense and her grip on the parchment tighten. Her eyes close briefly once she finishes, and she crumbles the paper into a ball. He eyes her fist warily as flames flicker into life in her palm, reducing the parchment to ashes. He, like most Nords, distrusts magic, and he's always uneasy when Mayenor uses hers around him.

"Is everything alright?" He ventures after a moment of still silence; her eyes snap open, and she opens her palm to let the ashes flutter to the ground.

"Nothing you need to worry about," she answers shortly, bending to retrieve the key that had fallen from the note; he can't bring himself to look away from the expanse of leg exposed by the blanket shifting around her.

"Then we need to get to Falkreath. The Jarl is expecting us." His tone is business-like, and he hopes it distracts from an excitement he's sure is visible. He needn't worry; she doesn't even spare him a glance as she pads back up the stairs, gripping the key tightly and frowning into space.

She returns a few minutes later, and Vilkas has to repress a smile when he sees her clad in her armor once more, her hair pulled back and hidden beneath her hood. As beautiful as she had been in plainclothes (and as beautiful as he's sure she is in no clothes at all), she looks most like herself in dusty, blade-nicked leather.

"Let's go," she says simply, not meeting Vilkas's eye as she heads for the door. As she passes into the entryway, Rayya emerges from the back of the house and moves to step in front of her.

"Eat," she insists, thrusting a sweet roll into her hands. Mayenor opens her mouth to protest, but the stubborn set of Rayya's jaw silences her.

"Thank you," she says instead, accepting the sweet roll with an appreciative smile. "I'll eat it on the road. Here." She rummages in one of the pockets dotting her tunic and pulls out the key from earlier. "Keep this safe."

"What's it to?" Rayya asks, turning the key over in her hand. For a moment, a shadow crosses Mayenor's face, but she hides it quickly.

"The house. It was Brynjolf's."

Vilkas feels his heart jump into his throat at these words. He had assumed, since Mayenor didn't immediately evict Brynjolf the night before, that the thief had stayed the night with her. But at this realization, he allows himself to hope that he was wrong.

Even Rayya looks surprised as Mayenor drops the key into her palm and shoulders her way past the housecarl and through the front door. After a moment, the Redguard regains her composure and puts the key in a pocket before turning to Vilkas.

"Make sure she eats," she says sternly, and he can't help but smile. "I'm serious. She won't if you don't make her. And watch her back with those bandits."

"She can handle herself," he reminds her, and she frowns.

"Just because she _can _doesn't mean she _should._"

"We'll be fine," he assures her, and she nods tersely; without another word, he follows Mayenor out the door.

Mayenor is true to their word; it takes them almost no time at all to get to Falkreath from Lakeview Manor. As they ride into town, the guards bow their heads to Mayenor as she passes; she ignores them, instead glancing around the town, almost like she's making sure everything is in order. Apparently placated, she dismounts next to a long, wooden building and hands her horse over to a waiting guard. Vilkas follows suit.

"Keep them saddled," she instructs the guard. "We won't be long."

"Yes, my Thane." The guard's reverent tone sends a look of irritation across Mayenor's face.

"Right. Is Siddgeir in?" The guard nods an affirmative, and she gestures for Vilkas to follow her up a short set of steps and into the building.

The inside of the longhouse is nothing special: stairs line either side of the building, and a large firepit monopolizes the space directly in front of the door; beyond that lies the Jarl's throne. A young man, only a few years older than Mayenor, if that, lounges on the throne, looking rather bored. He looks up as they enter, and his face brightens.

"Ah, Mayenor, you're here. I had hoped Aela would send you," he purrs. Though his words are chatty and familiar, his tone makes it clear he considers Mayenor little more than an errand girl.

"I was the logical choice to come." Her voice is cold; Vilkas wonders what Siddgeir has done to garner her disapproval.

"Of course, of course," the Jarl agrees, flapping a bejeweled hand dismissively. "And who's your burly friend?"

"This is Vilkas, a senior member of the Companions," she answers before Vilkas can speak for himself.

"Ooh, you've got yourself a little assistant now? I knew you had to get lonely, being on the road all the time. Of course, my offer of a warm bed and a little fun still stands…" He drifts off with one eyebrow quirked, and Vilkas bristles, feeling his shoulders tighten as he readies to defend Mayenor's honor. She shoots him a look of bemused amusement before addressing the Jarl once more.

"A tempting offer, I'm sure, Siddgeir. But right now we're here about the bandits. I assume you mean the ones coming from the northwest?"

"Are they coming from the northwest?" He asks, looking genuinely surprised. "I haven't even looked at the reports. I'll have Nenya bring them to you." He turns his head to locate his steward, but she's already slipped off into the war room under the stairs.

"We'll look them over in the war room," Mayenor replies, following the Altmer woman.

The war room is typical by the Jarls' standards, though Siddgeir's, while clean and polished like the rest of the longhouse, is obviously little-used. Nenya retrieves a sheaf of parchment from a drawer and places them on the war table for Vilkas and Mayenor to look at.

"They're in chronological order, with the first attacks on top and the most recent ones on the bottom," she informs the pair, and Mayenor nods, gracing her with a smile.

"Thank you, Nenya."

"Of course, my Thane. Will you require anything else?" Nenya's stiff formality never falters in the face of Mayenor's friendly praise. Mayenor begins to shake her head, then glances at Vilkas.

"Some mead, please. Blackbriar Reserve, if you have it."

"Certainly." With a nod, the Altmer retreats to the main room of the longhouse. Vilkas gives Mayenor a curious look.

"I thought you didn't like mead?" He says, and she shrugs, already beginning to lay out the raid reports.

"I developed a tolerance for Blackbriar Reserve while I was in Riften," she tells him distractedly.

"Riften? What were you doing there?" Vilkas knows what Brynjolf has told him, that she is part of the Thieves' Guild, but he wants to hear it from her own mouth. She looks up at him, sharply, and a minute frown tips down the corners of her mouth.

"Business," comes her flat reply, and she turns her attention back to the raid reports, pointing to one in particular to draw his attention to it. "Look," she says, "this is from the first attack. And here, and here—" she points to several more reports, "these are all from the beginning, concentrated around the Shrine of Akatosh. The raids were all around that area for the first few weeks, then the spread out across the Hold."

"They must have been feeling out their territory," Vilkas says, moving beside Mayenor to look at the reports for himself. "If there was a map of the Hold around here-" He stops as Nenya returns with a tray laden with a pitcher and two cups.

"Blackbriar Reserve, as you requested, milady," she intones, setting the tray down on a nearby table. "Did I hear you're in need of a map of the Hold?"

"Aye, it'd be a great help," Vilkas agrees, and the Steward opens another drawer and withdraws a large sheet of parchment, which she spreads over the war table. Four decorative stones are places on each corner to act as paperweights. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" She asks once she'd done, cool eyes flicking between the Companions. Vilkas eyes her a bit warily: like all Altmer, Nenya has the same air of closed superiority that had made the Altmeri Dominion so threatening.

"We're fine, thank you," Mayenor assures her. She waits until Nenya passes through the doorway before turning her attention to the map. "I don't trust her," she confides quietly, flicking her gaze sideways toward Vilkas. "Or Siddgeir, for that matter."

"Then how did you become his Thane?" Vilkas asks in return, moving closer so they can converse more softly.

"It was a matter of strategy," she explains. "I needed Falkreath to be somewhere I could pass through safely. The easiest way to do that was to get in the Jarl's good graces." He looks at her, curious and a bit suspicious.

"Why do you need to pass through Falkreath so often? Most of the major Holds are up north." She gives him another of her calculating looks, green eyes narrowed.

"Business," she repeats in the same flat, final tone she'd used before. He bites back a sigh, knowing she's not likely to tell him her secrets. So, he bends to pore over the map.

It doesn't take long for them to mark all the bandit raids on the map, and Vilkas can see now that Mayenor had been right. The attacks were clearly done in a sweeping pattern originating from a single point: an unmarked bit of forest halfway to Rorikstead. They double-check their findings one more time before rolling up the map and stowing it in Mayenor's rucksack; then, they head for the door, ignore Siddgeir as they leave.

"Gone so soon?" Siddgeir calls after them. "You haven't even had lunch!"

"We'll have to take a raincheck, Siddgeir," Mayenor replies over her shoulder as Vilkas holds then longhouse door open for her. "We've got some bandits to kill." The sickeningly feral grin she flashes startles even Vilkas.


	8. Before the Storm

It started to rain halfway to the area they'd marked on the map. By the time they were ready to leave the path and delve into the woods, the sky had darkened to a murky grey, the sun hidden behind an impenetrable wall of thick, angry clouds. Together, they dismount their horses at the edge of the forest, huddling close to their mounts for some meager warmth.

"It's too thick to get the horses through," Vilkas grunts, mood souring as he feels a drop of water trailing down his spine. Despite his heavy, fur-lined armor, his underclothes are soaked and plastered to his skin.

"Then we'll tie them up here and I'll set some warding spells," Mayenor snaps in reply. She's just as irritable as Vilkas, and she's fared rather worse than he: her light leather armor has been thoroughly soaked and hangs heavily on her shoulders; her hood had blown back in the wind at some point in the ride, and her golden hair drips water into her eyes. Vilkas can't help but think, even with her shoulders hunched against the wind and her arms crossed over her chest, that she looks somehow ethereal in the rain, like some damp goddess caught away from her shrine.

She dismounts quickly and leads her mare under the cover of the trees, muttering what sounds to Vilkas like an apology for leaving her in the rain. He dismounts as well and follows her until they find a particularly dense cluster of trees, where they tie up their mounts. He steps back and watches in cautious awe as she walks in a circle around the beasts, leaving a shimmering trail behind her. When she completes the circle, the trail glows bright for a moment, then disappears. She nods, satisfied, and turns to face Vilkas.

"Let's go. The sooner we get out of this rain, the better. I'd kill for a nice campfire right now…" She grumbles darkly and turns in the supposed direction of the bandit camp, setting off without checking that Vilkas follows. He does, closely, and tries to focus on the task ahead. But he can't; instead, his head is filled with visions of Mayenor huddled by a fire, hugging her knees to her chest, and he resting beside her, holding her close to his chest in an attempt to warm them both up. At the moment, he'd kill for a campfire, as well.

It doesn't take them long to find the bandits' camp: they can hear it—and worse, smell it—before it even comes into view. As they slow to a crawl and crouch low in the underbrush, Vilkas sees Mayenor wrinkle her nose in disgust at the distinctive odor of the camp, a mix of rotting flesh and unwashed sweat. They reach the top of a hill, and she suddenly drops to her stomach in the grass; almost immediately, he follows suit, inching along on his belly to draw even with her. He can see now why she stopped: the spiked wooden walls of the camp jut into the air above them.

"How do you want to handle this?" She whispers, turning to face him. His breath catches for a moment when he realizes their faces are mere inches apart. "It looks like they've got archers posted along the walls, and I'm sure there are men guarding the entrance to the camp. Neither of us is particularly skilled with a bow, so the stealthy approach seems most logical." She eyes him a bit dubiously. "Assuming you know how to be stealthy…"

"Of course I can be stealthy," he replies in a heated whisper, scowling. "But I don't like the idea of taking them all on without the element of surprise."

"Look at the size of the camp," she scoffs. "There can't be more than a dozen in there. We kill the guards at the entrance quietly so no one notices, then get on the walls and kill the archers. Then we can deal with whoever's left. No problem." Vilkas frowns.

"It's not that easy," he protests. "We don't know if there's a building in there. There could be a barracks in there with dozens of men, or a cave full of reinforcements. We can't go in there blind."

"Well then what do you want to do?" She snaps, exasperated. "Knock on the front door? 'Oh, hello! We're new to the neighborhood and wondered if we could borrow a head of cabbage,'" She rolls her eyes at him, and he nearly growls with frustration.

"If you'd shut up for a moment," he snarls, "I have an idea." Quirking an eyebrow, she gestures for him to elaborate. "We need a distraction. Don't you know a spell that'd be useful?"

"I could conjure a familiar," she replies, looking thoughtful. "But it'd be obvious it's magic, and they'd get suspicious. We'll have to use something real…" She drifts off, eyes narrowed in thought. Vilkas feels an uneasiness creep into his gut as he notices a dangerous spark in her eyes.

"What?" He asks suspiciously. She purses her lips for a moment, then apparently makes up her mind.

"I'll be the distraction," she says.

"What?"

"It's the obvious answer," she croons. He recognizes that voice as the one she uses when she's trying to get her way. "Bandits are known for kidnapping women. I pretend to be lost, they take me into the camp, and while they're all busy paying attention to me, you can sneak in and start taking them out. Once you bring me my sword, I'll help."

Vilkas starts shaking his head before she even finishes her explanation.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"It's too dangerous. You could be killed before I get to you." She scowls.

"I know you don't think I'm a very good fighter, but I can handle myself just fine. If it comes down to it, I'll use my magic."

"This isn't about your skill," he sighs. "Those are bad men in there. How do you know they won't attack you on sight?"

"If they do, I'll just lead them back to you and we'll kill them away from their camp. This is the best option we have, and you know it." Vilkas doesn't answer her, instead imagining all the ways this plan could go wrong. They could shoot an arrow through her throat as soon as they saw her on the roar. They could gut her when she stumbled toward the entrance to the camp. They could tie her up with ropes and take her to a torture room. Or, worst of all, they could throw her into a room and have their way with her again, and again, and again…

"No," he says again, more firmly this time. "No. I'm responsible for your safety, and I won't let you do this."

"You're not responsible for shit," she snarls, "and I don't need your permission. This plan makes the most tactical sense. This is the plan we're going with."

Before he can respond, she eases her way back down the slope and out of the camp's line of sight. He follows quickly, determined to talk her out of this ludicrous plan. Once he scrambles down the hill, he reaches to catch her arm.

"This is a terrible idea," he tells her, trying not to make it obvious that he's terrified of her getting hurt.

"But it's the only idea we have," she replies seriously. "I can take care of myself even without my sword." She pauses, then looks him full in the eyes. "And I trust you. I know you'll watch my back." She pulls away and continues into the woods, but he's stuck, frozen in place. Her words echo in his mind: I trust you. He's longed for some show of affection, some sign that she doesn't hate him, and he's almost positive he's never heard her say that to anyone else, even Aela. And, though his mind screams that he's an idiot for letting her have her way, he follows her.

When he catches up to her, she's kneeling on the muddy ground, rooting through her rucksack.

"I have some civilian clothes in here somewhere," she tells him distractedly, elbow-deep in the seemingly bottomless bag.

"You have to take some weapons in," he replies.

"I have a pocket knife and a hunting bow. I'm just a hunter trying to feed her family." She doesn't mention his sudden acceptance of her plan; she'd known he would come around.

"I'm not sure you can pull off looking harmless," he grunts, and she looks up for a moment to eye him, unsure if he's trying to be funny.

"You'd be amazed," comes her answer. She yanks her hand out of the bag, producing a faded blue dress and a pair of worn but sturdy boots. Before he can comment on her odd preparedness, she disappears behind a thick tree.

"I'm still not fond of this plan," he calls after her, resisting the temptation to see what else she keeps in that bag of hers.

"Stop worrying." Even from behind the tree, her voice carries a hint of exasperation. "You're underestimating me; that's a dangerous mistake."

"I've fought with you before," he reminds her. "And even the strongest fighter can be outnumbered." The rustling behind the tree comes to a stop, and a moment later, Mayenor emerges in the dirty dress, her armor neatly folded in her arms. She gives him a lopsided smile.

"You best be careful, Companion," she tsks, bending to store her armor in the rucksack. "We wouldn't want it to seem like you're worried about me."

"It's my duty as your Shield Brother to ensure your safety," he grunts, shifting uncomfortably. "And I'll never hear the end of it if Aela finds out I let you get yourself killed."

"Then I'll be careful," she says definitively, snapping shut her bag and rising to her feet. "We wouldn't want to give Aela any more reason to bitch."

He just stares at her then, drinking in her presence as eagerly as any man wandering the deserts of Elsweyr might drink water. She looks alarmingly small now, with her bulky armor traded in for a form-fitting, worn dress. Her greatsword lies at her feet, and without it strapped to her back, and with her wet hair freed from its tight bun, she appears to him for the first time as a little girl. She's skinnier than he'd thought, and shorter without the thick soles of her boots to add an extra inch. He looks at all the skin exposed by her dress—her arms, her neck, her ankles, her face—and realizes how effortlessly a skilled archer could plunge an arrow deep into her unprotected flesh. He considers how easily the thin dress would give way to the bandit men's wandering hands. He wishes he was clever enough to think of another plan before everything goes wrong.

"Take my bag." She thrusts the leather sack toward him, and he dumbly accepts it. "Make sure you bring it with you. It's got all sorts of things to help us out if we get in a spot of trouble. And don't forget this." She grips the hilt of her greatsword tightly for a moment before offering it to Vilkas. He straps it to his back, next to his own weapon.

"Do you have your bow and knife?" He asks. He can feel his throat tightening as the realization of what's about to happen sets in. She nods. If she's nervous, she hides it well. "Arrows?"

"Of course I've got arrows," she snorts. "What hunter worth her catch would carry a bow and no arrows? Stop acting like my mother and let's get going."

They search the woods for the path the bandits must use to get supplies to their camp. They hover on the edge of the trees for a moment, and she pierces him with a solemn look.

"Don't come in till you hear me scream," she reminds him, unnervingly calm. "And if things don't go as planned, don't come after me alone. Go back to Falkreath and get Rayya, at least."

"Just be careful," he says again, like a doting mother.

"I don't plan on dying today," she replies with a smirk. "Count on that." Then, she steps onto the small road and follows it back to the top of the hill. Vilkas, hidden in the forest, keeps an eye on her as she approaches the camp. The closer she gets, the more she seems to shrink, and he can't tell if she's genuinely scared or putting on a show. Either way, he thinks, he's terrified enough for the both of them.

As soon as Mayenor rounds the corner and comes into sight of the camp, the archers atop the wall snap to attention, arrows notched and ready to fly.

"Wait!" The shrill voice cuts the damp air, and Vilkas looks around for the source. By the time he realizes that anguished cry had come from Mayenor, she's flanked by bandit guards, talking frantically. After a few moments, they grab her arms and roughly tug her toward the gate; she twists in their grasp, and he can see her eyes wide with fear. Her lips are still moving as she chatters to her captors, but her eyes are still, focused in his direction. Though he knows she can't see him through the brush, he feels as though she's staring into his soul, silently begging him not to leave her alone.

As Mayenor had predicted, the archers are distracted by the unexpected appearance of a strange woman in their midst. Vilkas is able to creep, however slowly, to the camp's wall, and he presses himself against the boards, heart pounding. He's concerned about his own safety, of course, knowing that he's a prime target for any archer bothering to glance down; but, even more so, he's terrified of what's happening to Mayenor behind those walls. He hunkers down behind the spiked heads decorating the gate, trying to ignore the stench of bloated flesh as he waits for Mayenor's signal. The minutes stretch on for what seems like hours, and he begins to panic. What if they gagged her so she couldn't scream? What if she'd been dragged down into a cave in the mountainside and her screams were echoing unanswered against the stone walls? What if they had killed her?

She screams.


End file.
